


here's lookin' at you, kid

by chicafrom3



Category: Lost
Genre: Community: over_look, Drug Addiction, Fame, Fights, Friendship, Gen, Self-Destruction, Semi-Canonical Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-23
Updated: 2007-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:20:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicafrom3/pseuds/chicafrom3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A typical night with Driveshaft on tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here's lookin' at you, kid

**Author's Note:**

> over_look table/theme name & number: I, 8 – Betrayal

It was not the last night Driveshaft spent as friends. Neither was it the first night they spent in distrust of each other. The dissolution of their friendship wasn't that sudden.

It was just a night.

A concert in New York that had not exactly sold out, because their popularity was already on the wane. Liam was stoned out of his head, Charlie was not far behind, Pat was drunk and a little buzzed on something indefinite, and Sinjin was sober for the night for one reason or other. A philosophical choice, he claimed later; he'd tried to find enlightenment through drugs, so why not try a night sober and see how that turned out?

There was a fight between Liam and Charlie over one of the songs, which was…well, it was par for the course, really; seemed to happen after most concerts around that time. Pat ignored the whole issue, did his usual trick of managing to fade into the background, along with his girlfriend Melissa. Sinjin crashed out on the couch in their hotel room and closed his eyes, and for whatever reason this set Liam off.

"God, could you be any more useless?" Liam snapped, and Sinjin blinked and looked at him.

"What?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Liam," Charlie bit.

"No," Sinjin insisted, sitting up now. "What's he going on about?"

"You don't do a goddamn thing except lie around," the singer spat out at him. "Just coast along, right, 'cause it doesn't mean a sodding thing to you—"

" _What_?"

"Lay off," Pat spoke up. But Liam was too far gone now, well into rant mode.

"I'm fucking sick of putting up with him! He doesn't do shit, just lets us carry him—"

"I'm the only one in this band who _isn't_ constantly stoned!" Sinjin shouted back. Nobody fucking _carried_ Adam St. John, he pulled his own damn weight. "And coming from a guy who hasn't made it to sound check in six months, that doesn't mean much, Liam!"

Liam ignored that, too. Hell, it probably hadn't even penetrated his drug haze. "The only reason you're even fucking _here_ is because you can play guitar a little—"

A _little_? Okay, no. Nobody accused Sinjin of being able to play guitar a _little_. Liam was still going on, but Sinjin wasn't listening anymore; he got up off the couch, shoved past his bandmate, and walked out.

If he stayed, he was going to knock Liam's teeth out. So he walked out.

He spent nearly an hour wandering around the city streets, not thinking. Then he found a bench in Central Park and sat and thought for a while longer. Thought about the band, thought about the drugs, thought about Liam's mood swings and anger, thought about what the fuck he was even _doing_ here. He could've been an engineer, maybe, or a pilot, or even a teacher like his sister—instead, he was sitting on a bench in Central Park after a concert that had barely netted enough ticket sales to justify holding it, and after being read the riot act from someone who was meant to be his friend.

He was sitting on a bench in Central Park in jeans and a Ramones T-shirt he'd nicked from Pat, without his keycard for the hotel or his wallet or even his cell phone. Fuck. Wow. Maybe he should've thought before walking out.

He didn't have anywhere to go, so he stayed where he was, hunching over to conserve body warmth.

It was another hour, and Sinjin was contemplating finding a payphone and calling Zap collect, when a familiar voice rumbled, "'S cold out here."

"Not _that_ cold," Sinjin insisted, regardless of his teeth chattering. But he moved over to let Pat sit next to him.

Pat being Pat was dressed much more sensibly than Sinjin, in a battered Manchester U sweatshirt and a denim jacket. He narrowed his eyes at Sinjin's clothes and asked, "Is that my shirt?"

"Well, you didn't notice…"

"I just did!"

"Didn't notice earlier, I mean," Sinjin amended.

"Hmph." Pat frowned for a moment but couldn't hold the expression. "'S cold out here, you should come back to the hotel."

"I woulda." Sinjin averted his eyes guiltily. "But I forgot my keycard."

"You could've phoned—"

"And my phone."

"…ah."

Sinjin shrugged, then brightened up. "But you have a key! You can let me in!"

Pat looked at him oddly. "Are you _sure_ you're the only one of the band who isn't stoned tonight?"

"Yeah! This is just pure Sinjin!" Sinjin grinned—and then deflated. "Is Liam still there?"

"He passed out a few minutes after you left. Me and Charlie and Melissa have been combing the city for you. We even called Zap and interrupted…whatever techie stuff he was doing tonight. He said if we couldn't find you in an hour he'd come out and find you."

"Really?" It didn't surprise him about Zap, of course; Zap was his best mate, Zap would always come to find him. But Pat and Charlie and even Melissa?

"Really." Pat nodded for emphasis, then dragged him to his feet and said, "Come _on_. Back to the hotel and central heating. I'll call Charlie and Zap and Melissa on the way."

Sinjin went along with him, wondering if, in the morning, any of this would matter. If Liam would remember it; if it would be incentive enough to make Sinjin leave; or if no one would speak about it again, and the cycle would continue.

It wasn't the last night they fought, or the last night they considered themselves mates.

It was just a night.


End file.
